As Stormy as the Sea
by littleirishrose
Summary: Lady Hermione Granger, the wealthy ward of Governor James Potter, knows that it's smart to be afraid of the pirates who lurk just outside Port Royal. Captain Draco Malfoy, one of the pirate king Voldemort's best and brightest, doesn't really care what she's afraid of. Adventure, treasure, dark magic, and romance ensue, as stormy as the sea they sail upon. [Pirate AU; DM/HG]
1. Chapter I: Warnings of Pirates

The sun dawned over the half-moon of the sea that filtered into the bay, promising a perfect day. Hermione Granger peered blearily at the strip of blue-green water that she could see from where her head rested on her pillow, and groaned, turning her face and pressing it hard into the linen pillowcase. It may have promised to be a perfect day outside – clear skies, warm sunshine, sparkling ocean – but all she wanted was five, maybe ten more minutes of sleep. She could already hear chambermaids and cooks bustling around the three lavish floors and gardens of the governor's mansion, but as the wealthy and only daughter of the long-dead Major General Granger, commander of the king's forces in Port Royal, sleep was a luxury that Hermione was happy she could afford.

 _Five more minutes…_ she thought drowsily, fingers groping blindly for the wand on her nightstand. She half-wondered if she could charm the curtains closed, so that wretched sunlight wouldn't wake her again.

Today, however, it seemed that being able to afford the luxury of sleep didn't mean that she would be able to cash in. Just as she had given up searching for her wand, and was about to roll over and get back to dreaming (what had she been dreaming about – something to do with the sea, and a large, dark ship?), there was a brisk knock on the carved walnut door that led into her bedroom. Molly Weasley, the stout housekeeper who was in charge of the governor's servants, and Hermione's well-being overall, bustled into the room without waiting to be asked in.

"Molly!" exclaimed Hermione, wriggling down in bed so that her toes bumped the cold iron casing of the warmer that had heated the sheets the night before. "I'm not even dressed!"

"And whose fault is that, at nearly ten o' clock in the morning?" Molly said airily, whisking across the room to Hermione's wardrobe and pointing her wand at it, so that the doors flew open. She tossed her gray-streaked copper curls out of her face and rustled through the wardrobe's hangers for a moment, finally yanking out a wine-colored dress with deep bell sleeves and an ivory lace stomacher.

Then she turned, shaking the dress at the girl in the bed. "Come on, now. Shake a leg, Lady Hermione. Governor Potter has requested your presence in his office, along with Lord Harry."

Now Hermione was awake. She slid out from between the sheets and let her nightdress pool around her ankles, raising her arms to let Molly fasten her petticoats around her waist. "He's requested our presence?" she asked, puzzled. "What for?"

"I'm sure it's not my business," Molly said, now tucking her wand behind her ear and wrapping Hermione's corset around her already slim waist. "You'll have to do without breakfast, I'm afraid. He's asked for you as soon as you're ready. Arthur's out now fetching Lord Harry from the riding paths, so I advise that you hurry."

"But what – ?" Hermione's question was yanked from her lungs with a gasp; Molly was a master at performing just the right spells to tighten corsets to accentuate their wearer's most flattering angles. Unfortunately, her skill meant that the way her wand yanked on the laces was literally breathtaking. Hermione chose to keep silent instead, turning her questions over in her mind and causing the smooth, pale skin on her forehead to wrinkle in thought.

It wasn't terribly unusual for James Potter, governor of the British Caribbean colony of Port Royal, to request an audience with his son and his ward. Harry and Hermione had grown up as siblings, really, though they weren't related. When Hermione's father's ship had fallen siege to a band of rogue pirates almost twelve years earlier, Governor Potter had taken her in as a gesture of goodwill. As such, he had treated Hermione as a daughter, and though she had fond memories of her true father, James Potter was a wonderful stand-in.

But he normally sent word in advance when he needed to inform her of something like a new lesson, or a new maid. Besides that, he rarely asked for his son and his ward to appear together. She couldn't imagine what might warrant both her attention _and_ Harry's.

Molly finished tying her lady's corset with a final flick of her wand, and stood back to survey her handiwork, hands on her hips. "That'll do," she said in satisfaction. "Arms up." Hermione obeyed. Before long, she was magically dressed in the wine-colored gown, her stockings tied high and her heeled fawn-colored leather shoes, tied with a matching ivory ribbon, fastened on her feet. Around her waist, dangling from a delicate gold chain, was her wand, snug in a case made of reddish-brown leather that was stitched with gold thread in a quilted pattern.

Molly did a quick job of curling Hermione's honey-toned hair and pinning it atop her head, and then flapped her arms at the door. "Out with you. The governor doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Hermione smiled, thanked her maid, and did as she was asked, scurrying down the corridor and descending the broad marble steps into the mansion's entrance hall. Just as she reached the bottom step, the front door opened, and Harry Potter stepped through. His jet-black hair, always slightly messier than protocol dictated, stood out from his head in wild spurts. Molly clearly hadn't been lying when she'd told Hermione that he'd been out riding.

"Hermione," Harry greeted her, closing the door behind him. He brushed away specks of dirt from his ruffled shirt and felt at his hip for his wand case, battered by many hours of riding. "Father's manservant said that he wanted to see us? Do you know why?"

She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." Sheepishly, she added, "I've only been up for half an hour or so." Her cheeks flushed at the wicked grin on Harry's face, and she nudged him with her elbow. "No need to ask where you've been. How is Nimbus doing?"

Harry's expression turned excited, as it always did when anyone mentioned his beloved mare. "Fantastic! Still runs like a dream." His emerald green eyes slid sideways to a door to Hermione's right. "But I suppose we should we go in, then?"

Just then, the front door opened once more, and a tall, gangly, redheaded boy entered the mansion. His thin arms were wrapped around a large tureen of potatoes, and he stopped dead when he saw Harry and Hermione in the entrance hall.

"Oh! Erm, sorry… didn't think anyone was in at the moment. I mean, not _anyone_ , but… you lot." His blue eyes darted to Hermione, and the tips of his ears went rosy pink.

"That's all right, Ron," Harry said cheerily. "You know I don't mind you using the front door." Technically, servants weren't allowed to – if his mother Molly had seen, she would have given him a nasty scolding – but Harry and Hermione were friendly with Ron, the son of Molly and the house's manservant, Arthur. Ron was Harry and Hermione's age, and she sometimes forgot that he was technically of a lower class than they were. He and Harry even went riding sometimes, when he could escape Molly's wrathful eye.

Ron set the potatoes down with a clang that echoed off the hall's high ceiling and twinkling crystal chandelier. He groaned and pushed up his sleeves, massaging his freckled forearms. "God, those are heavy," he mumbled. His eyes darted to Hermione again, and then quickly away, like looking at her burned him. "Going out for a ride, Harry?"

"Just got back, actually. Father wants to see us," said Harry, gesturing at Hermione and himself. "I'll go out later this afternoon, though. Fancy coming along?"

Ron looked mournfully at the potatoes, his bright red hair falling into his eyes. "I'll try," he said gloomily. "Mum's probably going to have me gouging the bits out of these things for ages. By _hand_ , no less – she says I can't use magic in the kitchen." He scowled. "I could be out in the yard sharpening swords or something exciting, but no. One of the kitchen girls got sick last night, so I've got to help out, she says."

He bent and hefted the tureen in his skinny arms again. "Best be off. Don't want your father to wonder where you've got to. See you later," he added, still sounding dejected. He passed through the narrow servants' door under the staircase, and Harry and Hermione were left alone in the hall once more. They quickly hurried through the other door, the one opening onto the corridor leading to James Potter's study, and knocked softly at the gold-embossed double doors.

"Come in."

The pair let themselves in, moving immediately to the straight-backed mahogany chairs in front of the governor's sweeping, sturdy desk. The governor himself sat behind it, and had clearly been in the middle of perusing a sheaf of parchment documents when they had entered. Harry was almost the spitting image of his father, except for the eyes. Governor Potter had dark brown eyes, and these were now fixed on the young man and woman before him. He pointed his wand at the door wordlessly, and it shut behind them, locking itself with a loud click.

"You're late," James said simply. "I asked for you nearly an hour ago."

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other. She opened her mouth to speak – her excuse of sleeping late was bound to sound lame, but at least it _was_ an excuse – but James raised a hand to stop her before she could get any words out.

"It doesn't matter why. I just ask that you don't keep me waiting so long next time." He took a long pause, shifting the documents around on his desk aimlessly, and then looked up at them again. "No doubt you are wondering why I've called you in to speak with you.

"A bit," Harry admitted. Hermione didn't miss the quick glint of humor in his eye. James's mouth quirked slightly at one corner, but the good-natured expression didn't last long.

"It is, unfortunately, a rather serious matter." He stood and picked up his wand from the top of his desk, twirling it over his smooth, sturdy fingers. He tapped it idly against the curly gray woolen wig, set on a wig stand underneath his window; it was protocol for governors to wear the wig, but James Potter only did on extremely formal occasions. Like his son, he preferred to wear his black hair wild and untamed. The wig shifted colors as the wand tapped it, moving from crimson to tangerine to violet in a matter of seconds, but the governor didn't seem to notice.

"I don't want to alarm you," he said at last. "But at the same time, sometimes it is… _necessary_ to be alarmed. One who is alarmed is alert, prepared. Ready."

A lump formed in Hermione's throat without her quite knowing why. James turned around to face them once more. "I received word this morning that a band of pirates has been spotted just a few miles outside of the bay," he said bluntly. "Their reason for being so close to Port Royal is unknown. Nevertheless, I am sure that it can mean nothing good." His eye fell to his ward as he said this, and Hermione felt something icy trickle along her spine.

She knew that he was right. Pirates had only been spotted close to Port Royal a handful of times in written record, and never, as far as she knew, in her lifetime. The last time, a fleet of ships has descended on the town, wreaking havoc: burning shops and homes, killing townspeople, and countless horrors Hermione had barely heard whispered about. Despite the fact that it had been decades, the citizens of Port Royal lived in constant fear of another raid. News that pirates had been spotted near the city waters was a bad omen.

Her thoughts trickled to her father: sunk in a pirate raid at sea, perhaps killed before his ship disappeared beneath the waves. Her stomach turned, and she desperately tried to rid herself of the images of blood and seawater that filled her brain at the thought. "Who are they?" she said, her voice sounding shakier than she wanted it to.

"We're not sure," James said hesitantly. "We believe…" He stopped, mouth shifting with words he didn't want to say. "There are indications that they are ships tied to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Lord Voldemort?" Harry asked.

James eked out a breath through his teeth at the name, but nodded stiffly. "Yes."

Harry and Hermione gaped at the governor, openmouthed. "I thought he didn't exist," said Harry hoarsely. "I thought… but he's a myth, isn't he? A story to frighten kids?"

"I wish that was true," James said heavily. He couldn't seem to meet Harry's or Hermione's gazes now. "He is elusive – hardly a man alive has ever seen him, and no one confronts him and lives to tell about it. But he is very real, I'm afraid. He has been gathering followers through force, and sometimes through admiration… and the pirates outside Port Royal are believed to be some of his."

Hermione felt a little faint. She glanced sideways at Harry; he looked as pale as she felt. It was one thing to believe that the pirate king Lord Voldemort was a bedtime story to scare her away from playing near the docks – which it had done well – but it was quite another to think that the pirate, who was allegedly so terrifying men never dared to speak his name, was real. And it was quite another thing to imagine people working for him, spider-walking like the tentacles of a giant squid, probing into the corners of the world and turning everything they touched to shadow.

Her fingers toyed idly with the quilted leather of her wand case, and she chewed on her bottom lip. Harry spoke up first. "So, this… erm, pirate lord, or whatever… he might be coming after Port Royal, then?"

"That is what we fear." James returned to his desk, adjusting his round glasses over the bridge of his nose. "And so you will understand why I am telling you this. Until the pirates have disappeared, or until our men have satisfactorily dealt with them, I must ask that the two of you remain on the mansion's grounds at all times. No going into town, or riding in the lanes, or traveling to the docks."

"But Father!" cried Harry, with a horrified expression on his face. "Riding –!"

His father raised a hand to cut him off. "It's not for forever," he said firmly. "But I will not have your lives endangered by a band of pirates. It is not worth risking that." Again, his gaze fell on Hermione; no doubt he, too, was remembering her father. "I swore to your father that I would protect you, Hermione, if anything should ever happen to him. I mean to honor my word. Keep your wands on you at all times. And _be safe._ "

Harry shoved his chair back, jaw clenched, and stormed out of the office in a huff. Uncertainly, Hermione rose too.

"Sir?" she said timidly.

James looked up at her wearily. "Yes, my dear?"

"If pirates do come aground…" But she couldn't finish the question. It was almost too horrible to think about. What was she to do if, by some chance, they made their way into port? It was rumored that Lord Voldemort and his crew were well-versed in dark magic. The town didn't stand a chance, and she knew that the governor's mansion was a popular spot for pirate raiders.

The governor smiled reassuringly. "It won't come to that," he promised her. "This is all precautionary. Be alert, Lady Hermione, but do not worry."

 _But that's far easier said than done_ , Hermione thought, as she eventually followed Harry out of his father's office, leaving the governor to his documents once more. She moved slowly down to the entrance hall, lost in thought, and nearly ran right into Ron. The gangly boy leaped back.

"Herm – I mean, my lady!" he said, nearly dropping the now-empty potato tureen he held. "I didn't see you." His face had gone red again, masking the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. He peered more closely at her. "Are you all right?"

She knew that her worry probably showed on her face. She made an effort to smooth the emotion away. "Fine," she said breezily. "I just need a bit of air. It's a lovely morning, and…" She trailed off, sentence dying on her lips. Shrugging distractedly, she skirted around him, feeling his eyes on the back of her neck as she slipped through the mansion's front doors.

The high stone wall that enclosed the property had never seemed so flimsy before. Hermione could hear the low rush of the sea lapping at the docks and sand of the port. Pirates, just on the other side of that wall, in those waters.

She pressed her hands to her stomach and sucked in deep breaths, like she could push the fear inside her deep, deep, deep, into a place she couldn't reach. The day that had dawned so promising had somehow turned chilly, cold, unwelcoming. Though the sun still shone, a chilly mist seemed to wrap itself around her shoulders.

Hermione could sense the pirates out there. They loomed large, like hungry beasts waiting to snap her up in their jaws. She prayed that they would never get the opportunity.

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 _ **A/N:** Please review and let me know what you think! I love hearing from readers. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!_


	2. Chapter II: Loyal to the Crew

Draco Malfoy knew that he was being watched. He liked it that way. He liked imagining all the sniveling cowards in Port Royal, pissing in their undergarments over the fact that his ship had been sighted in the bay. Why else did they think he'd allowed them to get a glimpse of the _Death Eater_ at all? If he hadn't wanted them to see it, he would have been more careful.

All he had to do now was bide his time. And that was something Draco was quite good at.

He leaned back in his chair and squinted through the eyepiece of his telescope at the tiny strip of land visible through it. There wasn't much to see: just a smear of black where the horizon was, and tiny ship's masts sticking up here and there, like needles jabbed into a pincushion.

He frowned; he should have been able to see a _little_ more than that. The tiny panes that made up the bay window in the captain's quarters were filthy. He'd have to get someone to clean them later. Maybe Pettigrew… that would be a laugh, watching that rat-faced man doing his bidding. Draco smirked at the thought. He could just wave his wand, say a quick _Scourgify_ , but where was the fun in that?

There was a knock at that moment, and he swung round to face the door leading out into the ship's galley. "Come in," he drawled. The door creaked open, and in its frame stood Crabbe and Goyle, the _Death Eater_ 's two hulking bodies weren't quite able to squeeze into the door's confines.

"Captain Malfoy," said Goyle, in a low voice that was more like a grunt. "We've got all the gunpowder up from the hold." He held up a thick hand in a salute, and then awkwardly let it drop back to his side.

Draco stood from his desk. "Good." He raised an eyebrow. "And the torches?"

"Soaked in whale oil, sir, and waiting for the men to go ashore," Crabbe spoke up. His voice was less of a grunt – more of a croak, like a toad's. "They'll set everything ablaze, sir, quick as you like."

"Good," the slim blonde man repeated. He ran a finger under the high collar of his white shirt absentmindedly, looking down at the maps and diagrams spread out on his ebony desk. Port Royal was a tiny town, though plenty rich. Governor Potter was supposedly one of the wealthiest men in the Caribbean, and if these mansion plans were anything to go by, the rumors were more than true. But tonight's little party wasn't about seizing riches, and he'd made sure his crew was well aware of that.

Lord Voldemort's crew was growing stronger, more numerous, and more fearsome almost by the day. Draco had heard whispers about his power even back before he'd joined his forces and captained a ship for him: people were terrified, and they always had been. The _Death Eater_ 's jaunt into Port Royal would shake things up, get people even more properly scared, and prepare them for the way things would be when Lord Voldemort ruled the entirety of the seven seas. It was an excuse to boost morale, ease tensions, and destroy a few things. Though he wouldn't be participating directly – the _Death Eater_ would be nothing without the youngest man to ever captain her, of course – Draco was just as excited about the prospect as the rest of his crew. A good, old-fashioned, no-nonsense pirate raid. His first, and hopefully not his last.

He realized that Crabbe and Goyle were still hovering in the doorway, like they were awaiting further orders from him. Draco waved a hand at them irritably. "You can go." He paused, and then corrected himself. "Actually – send Pettigrew down here. Then let the crew know they're free to amuse themselves as they see fit until sundown."

The two boatswains shot grins at each other; it was a rare day that they weren't worked from dusk to dawn, but Draco liked being popular, and wanted to keep it that way. No sense in risking having a mutiny on his hands. Before they could allow him to change his mind, they scurried off, as much as their girth allowed them to do anything like scurrying.

Draco turned, meaning to cross back to his desk, and instead caught sight of himself in the looking glass on the starboard side of the captain's quarters. He puffed up inwardly with pride; God, he even _looked_ like a captain, didn't he? His father had seen to that: the expensive muslin shirt, the black silk vest with the silver serpent embroidered on the breast, the sturdy black cotton trousers, the expensive black leather boots. Outfitted like a king.

Lucius Malfoy was Lord Voldemort's quartermaster, the second-in-command aboard a pirate vessel, and the wealth earned from a position like that was evident in his son's grooming. Draco smoothed down a nonexistent flyaway in his silver-blonde hair and smirked at his reflection. Some men muttered that Lucius Malfoy had bought his son the position as captain of the _Death Eater_ , too. Well, and so what? Draco was a great captain, though he was younger than many of the men he commanded. The _Death Eater_ hadn't suffered so much as a scratch as long as he'd been aboard her. No one could argue that. Lucius might have provided the means, but Draco had paved his own way.

Another knock sounded at the door. He started out of his thoughts and snapped, a little harshly than was required, "Yes? Just come in, Pettigrew."

But it wasn't Pettigrew. It was Scabior, a crewman with a pointed face and stringy, dirty hair, who poked his head around the jamb. He grinned at Draco with a mouth full of brown teeth, mossy and crooked, like moldy piano keys.

"Hey, Cap'n," he leered, excitement glinting in his dirt-colored eyes. "You'd bes' come up on deck. There's somethin' you ought t'see."

"What is it?"

Scabior shook his head. "I was tol' to send for you specific'ly." He pointed back toward the main deck of the _Death Eater_.

Draco swore softly under his breath – they knew he hated to be bothered – but he picked up his hawthorn wand from the desk, tucking it into the slim wand case he wore around his hips, hanging on a black leather belt. A shining cutlass in a scabbard hung on the belt's other side. Their two pairs of boots clunked hollowly as they climbed the stairs leading up to the middle deck of the ship. Cresting the top, he now saw a horde of filthy men were clustered around something he couldn't make out.

Men nudged one another as he approached, and "captain" was the alert hissed from mouth to ear. The circle parted to let Draco pass through; he spotted Pettigrew on the fringes, looking as though he might faint. A hint of a sneer touched the blonde man's lips. _Coward_. But then his attention was diverted away. Crouched in the middle of the mob, lashed to the mast with black ropes that had clearly been sprung from someone's wand, was a man called Travers. Draco didn't know much about him; he had joined the _Death Eater_ 's crew fairly recently.

"What is it?" he said, just loud enough to force every man to fall silent if they wanted to hear him speak. It didn't work; the crew continued to chatter amongst themselves about Travers. Draco removed his wand from the case at his hip and pointed it lazily over the ship's port railing. A _boom_ , as though from a cannon, immediately silenced the crew, like the jinx had been placed on them instead.

"Is anyone going to tell me why I've been called up here?" he sneered, cool gray eyes finding each of his crew in turn.

Crabbe was the first one brave enough to break it. "It's him," he said excitedly, pointing at the crouched and whimpering Travers.

A man stepped to Draco's side, silent as a shadow. Blaise Zabini, Draco's own quartermaster, materialized at his side as though he'd learned to Apparate noiselessly. "He was caught," the taller man said, narrowing his eyes at Travers. Blaise was nearly six and a half feet tall, with impossibly sharp cheekbones and coal-black skin and eyes. They looked like the inverse of one another when they stood side by side: angel and demon, moonlight and deepest night.

"Caught?" Draco repeated.

"He was overheard telling the cabin boy about how he was going to escape during tonight's raid," Blaise said, lip curling, still not looking at the captain. "Said he planned to sneak away and never return to the ship." Blaise cut his eyes at Draco. "Obviously, that would be something of a liability."

"I didn't!" screeched Travers, interrupting. He flailed uselessly against the magical ropes that bound him to the mast. "I'd never abandon – never try and –" He was panting hard, and his eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. "I'm loyal, always loyal!"

Blaise aimed a kick at Travers's ribs. "Shut up," he snarled. With bony fingers, he reached behind him and plucked something off the deck, handing it to Draco. "His bunk was searched as soon as I tied him up here. This bag was found under his hammock."

Draco upended the cloth bag onto the worn boards under his feet. A spare set of clothing, a map of the port, and a small sprinkling of coins went everywhere; a few of the crew members lunged after the coins before they could slip through the cracks and tumble down into the hold beneath their boots.

"Well, Travers," Draco said languidly, shaking the bag to make sure nothing else was left. "If you weren't planning on running away, what's all this about?"

The captive man let out an animalistic moan, eyes bulging still more ferociously. "No, no," he groaned, straining against the ropes. "You misunderstand, Captain – I'd never –" But again, he couldn't quite seem to finish the sentence. He licked his lips and looked around wildly, but there was no mercy to be found from any of the rest of the pirates surrounding him. His eyes found Draco again.

Casually, like he was doing nothing more than washing his hands, Draco pushed the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. He snapped open the wand case at his hip and tilted his wand out into his fingers. "I don't think I need to tell you my feelings about loyalty," he said smoothly, brushing a speck of dust from the tip of his wand. "If you wanted a way out of your service, Travers, I'm more than happy to provide one."

The man's jaw went rigid. "No," he said, word hoarse in his throat. "I won't – I'm sorry –"

Draco pointed his wand at Travers. The Dark Lord's boatswain, Severus Snape, had recently divulged a new curse to the rest of the crews. This would be a perfect opportunity to test it out, have a little fun.

" _Sectumsempra_ ," he whispered, the word skimming off his tongue like a blade as he brought his wand down through the air in a savage slash.

The skin on the captive's arm split open like a seam. Blood trickled in steady rivulets down his arm, pooling beneath him and wicking into his ragged trousers. Draco performed the curse a second time; a second cut appeared. Again, again, and more and more crimson liquid pooled underneath Travers as his skin slowly turned to ribbons. The man was screaming, but Draco almost couldn't hear him through the heady buzz in his own head. He stopped when Travers ceased moving and hung, limp, from the ropes that tied him to the mast.

Draco took a step back so the already-congealing blood wouldn't reach his boots. None of the crew was laughing anymore. Humiliation was one thing; seeing a man being turned into an example was another.

"Anyone else feel like abandoning the crew tonight?" he called out into the quiet. "Want to test your luck and try deserting?" Wind whistled through the sails, carrying the scent of salt and sea with it, but no other sound rang out across the desk. He tucked his wand back into its case, snapped it shut, and turned back to the ragged circle of men.

"You can take that" – he jerked his chin at Travers's limp form – "as your first and final warning. Chuck him over the side for the sharks. And clean that up," he added, gesturing in disgust at the pool of blood soaking into the deck. "Then scrub the rest of the decks. Your friend there just cost you your afternoon of rest."

Low grumbles rippled around the crew, but just a look from Draco silenced them almost as soon as they had begun. " _Then_ ," he continued silkily, "outfit yourselves to make for shore tonight. The raid's still on." He turned on his heel and, without looking back at the assembly, descended the stairs to his quarters once more.

Lucius Malfoy might have helped his son become captain of the _Death Eater_ , the youngest by far in Lord Voldemort's crew. That was true enough. But Draco would be damned if he would stand to let anyone pull the wool over his eyes because of it. He was young – but he was also smart, and cunning, and ruthless. It was good for his men to see that – and he didn't mind the rush of power that surged through his veins when another man's life was in his hands, either.

He slammed the door behind him, took his wand into his hand, and slid the end of his belt through the buckle, letting the scabbard and wand case thump to the ground. He sank into his chair and pulled his pipe to him. He'd stolen it from someone; he'd long since forgotten who. It was craved like a dragon, and its gaping mouth, ringed with razor-sharp fangs, was stuffed with spiced tobacco. Draco tapped his wand to it and let it start to smoke.

Let them be afraid of him. Travers wasn't a huge loss. By tonight, by the time Port Royal was set ablaze, the crew of the _Death Eater_ would have forgotten all about that spectacle anyway.

He popped the end of the pipe in his mouth, blue smoke quickly filling the cabin, and pulled his diagrams back toward his chest. There was still a lot of planning to do before the fun began.

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 _ **A/N:** Some people have asked, but just so you know, I plan on updating this story about once a week. It's only been five days since the first chapter, mind you, but I really wanted to post another chapter. I won't stick to a strict schedule, but hopefully once a week will be the average. Thanks for all of the follows and favorites so far! Please continue to let me know what you think!_


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